


Convergence of Fears

by HistoriaGloria



Series: Convergence of Fears [1]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Canon-typical apocalypse, Gen, Set post MAG 160, The gang are all avatars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:26:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23470132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HistoriaGloria/pseuds/HistoriaGloria
Summary: There is an empty bar.Well, not quite empty. In the bar sits a well-dressed man, waiting. Waiting for the others to join him, so they can decide what to do, here, at the end of everything.
Series: Convergence of Fears [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696324
Comments: 18
Kudos: 69





	Convergence of Fears

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kristsune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristsune/gifts).



> Okay, so! This was inspired by this wonderful piece of [art](https://areyouokaypanda.tumblr.com/post/614366761973874688/dont-think-i-ever-posted-this-here-so-here) by [areyouokaypanda](https://areyouokaypanda.tumblr.com/). It was also inspired by this awesome piece of [art](https://sphor-art.tumblr.com/post/614227090436390912/spiralcel-certainly-has-strong-vibes) by [sphor-art](https://sphor-art.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> This one is for Kristsune, who is a wonderful enabler and got this in my head, so here we are. Thank you so much love, especially for the stuff with Hamid! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

The world has ended.

Honestly, it’s rather an inconvenience. 

It’s been over for a good few days now, horror running wild throughout the whole world.

A young man, short and well-dressed, sits in an empty bar. The door is flung open, the shelves full of alcohol abandoned by whatever poor sod had owned this place. The tables are over-turned and broken, piles of wood strewn across the floor. The lights flicker, barely staying on.

The young man knows all this, but he doesn’t particularly care. He has a bottle of good whiskey open and is sipping it cautiously from a cup, sat at one of the few surviving tables. His eyes are closed in contemplation, but he is listening intently

He’s waiting for his companions to arrive. 

This young man has rich dark skin, long manicured nails and a very expensive taste in suits. He is dressed in green and purple and looks completely out of place in this trashed bar, with his beautiful clothes and artfully tousled black hair.

His hair is shot with silver, but not because of age. Because of the many spider’s webs which are draped throughout it. He sighs and opens his eyes.

All eight of them.

“You’re here early,” he says to the seemingly empty bar. “Before anyone else is hardly your style.” Mist coils in from the doorway, where the door hangs off its hinges. And a moment later, a man, also short, but stern and stout steps out of the mist, his white beard in a tight braid. His eyes, the colour of the open ocean, fix on one of the other man’s four pairs.

“I was in the area,” he replies gruffly. The first man smiles indulgently. He knows he’s lying.

“Drink, Zolf?” He offers the whiskey bottle, then gestures to the rest of the alcohol. Zolf Smith nods, crossing the bar to take a seat beside him. He takes a moment to pour himself a drink and down half of it before he speaks.

“What do you want, Hamid? What could The Weaver possibly want now?”

“Save the shop talk for when the others get here,” Hamid replies primly, a spider dangling from the tip of his ear. Zolf shrugs and finishes the rest of his glass. “How are you?”

“As usual. The One Alone is less affected. Though, I daresay the Weaver is doing well out of all this.”

“Well enough,” Hamid replies, sipping his whiskey. He opens his mouth to speak again when the room shifts and the familiar feeling of vertigo swims through them both. His words are stolen from him as it rights itself and a familiar figure enters. She is tall, her hair shorn short against her head and the rich pink skirt she is wearing snaps as though in high winds, despite the calm inside the building. The scowl on her face could curdle milk. 

“Now, now,” Hamid admonishes. “Don’t look at us like that. It was hardly of our designs, my dear Azu.”

“Damn the Watcher,” growls Azu, stalking across the bar and the sense of vertigo starts back up, stronger than ever.

“Could you _not_?” Zolf grunts, as he begins to lose substantial form.

“Play nice,” Hamid warns, twisting his fingers ever so slightly, as though pulling on a string and the vertigo fades. Azu glares at him, but just grabs a bottle of vodka and sits. “We’re here to talk.”

“Talk then,” Azu bites out. “I’d like to get back to helping the Falling Titan have a sky again.”

“We wait until the others get here,” Zolf repeats as he solidifies from the mist. 

“Who are we waiting for?” comes a voice from the dark of the bar, a little way away from the door. Zolf and Azu both jump but Hamid is of the Mother of Puppets. Surprising him is very difficult. 

“Hello, Sasha. The usual culprits,” Hamid replies easily as the woman steps forward into the weak light, which weakens at her very presence. Her skin is pale, creating stark contrast to her pitch-black hair, clothes and eyes. She moves to grab a drink and nods to the other two. Honestly, of the entities represented here, they mainly all get along. The Weaver and The One Alone a little less perhaps, as its difficult to manipulate someone completely when they are alone, but Zolf and Hamid have known each other for a very long time. 

“Hunt, Spiral and Stranger,” Sasha reels off, almost tiredly. “Always the same.”

“For It Is Lies and It Is Not What It Seems, they really are rather predictable,” Hamid muses and Azu snorts a little. 

“Don’t tell them that. They’re chaotic enough as it is. They’ll become unbearable.” Her eyes, as blue as the sky at the top of a mountain, are fixed on the open doorway, waiting. 

“Oh, I won’t.”

The arrival of their next guest is punctuated by the twang of an arrow sinking into the table, away from everyone’s hands. A greeting, not a warning. In stalks another short man, his red eyes glowing in the flickering bulb, his sharp canine teeth bared in a smile. His clothes, mainly grey and brown, are stained dark with blood.

“Alright, Grizzop,” Sasha grunts as he grabs another bottle and sits down.

“This better be good, Weaver. You’ve got half an hour before I’m off hunting,” Grizzop says, yanking his arrow out of the table to point it at Hamid.

“Yes, yes, hello to you too,” Hamid says wearily. He’s far too used to them all by this point to worry about any possible threats. 

“How are you doing, Grizzop?” Azu asks, a little distracted.

“Oh, this is fairly okay for The Hunt. Not perfect though. Would prefer our original arrangement.” There are grumbles of assent around the table and Hamid smiles, his eight eyes fluttering with excitement.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

“Sorry I’m late,” drawls a voice from the door and in sweeps a tall man. He looks like he has stolen the clothes from an 18th century prop doll, all collars and cuffs. He saunters right over, grabbing a drink as he bats those huge, far-too-blue-to-be-human eyes. 

“Wilde,” Zolf huffs, taking a long drink. Oscar Wilde smiles, too wide for his face and waves one Uncanny hand. 

“I beat Es Mentiras here though,” he says, sounding smug.

“Congratulations,” Grizzop growls. “You beat the thing which is actually incapable of telling time. Do you want a round of applause?”

“Enough,” Hamid says firmly and Wilde shuts his mouth with a clacking sound, retort silenced by a tug of Hamid’s power. “We’re not here to bicker.”

“Why are we here then?” comes the final expected voice. Through a door which definitely had not been there before comes wheeling the final member of this motley crew. They’re grinning, head tilted at an angle which it should not be, their yellow eyes glowing slightly. Their spiral pupils spin slowly as they come to sit beside Zolf, a vial of neon green liquid clutched between sharp fingers.

“Finally, Cel,” Grizzop groans, gesturing with his arrow. “Thought I would have to bail before you got here.”

“I’m sorry!” Cel whines, slumping into their seat. “It’s difficult to concentrate anymore.”

“That’s why I brought you here,” Hamid interjects before people can start bickering again. “The Watcher has somewhat destroyed our natural order. And none of us ever really wanted to complete a ritual, did we?”

“Nah. Rayner and Dominguez always raved about it, but I rather like the Forever Blind like it is, thanks,” Sasha mutters, sat just out of the light like she always does.

“The Unknowing would have worked,” whinges Wilde. “I enjoyed the choir so much. Can’t say I’m overly excited about Beholding out here.” There’s a pause, an old fear from everyone that the Ceaseless Watcher could be, well, watching. But with the combined presence of the Forever Blind, Es Mentiras and The One Alone, it would be like trying to look through dark fog at a maze to see them. 

“The Lukases always drove the idea of the Silence. I thought it was a stupid idea,” Zolf mutters sharply after a moment. “The One Alone feeds just fine, thank you. Or, it did.”

“The Hunt is constant. But more complicated right now.” Grizzop picks at the table with the tip of his arrow, a scowl on his face. “Like it to go back to normal, please.”

“Do you need my input?” Azu huffs. “Have you seen what they’ve done to the sky?”

“This is nothing like The Great Twisting! That was meant to unmake and turn that which was Not into something That Is,” Cel drinks from their odd vial and giggles, their hair beginning to stand on end. No one blinks an eye. “Too much is Seen.”

“So, we’re agreed?” Hamid says, his voice ever so smooth and inviting. “We’d like to undo whatever it is that The Ceaseless Watcher has managed to pull.” 

“C’mon, we’ve been making things difficult for the Eye for years,” Sasha points out. “It was a nice hobby.”

“That and confusing the Slaughter with a different tune,” Wilde giggles and the sound rings, unnaturally around the room. “I always did love the calliope.” 

“I always enjoyed feeding the Lightless Flame to the Falling Titan,” Azu reminisces and for just a second, they all have altitude sickness.

“Wait. What do you want out of this, Hamid?” Hamid is wounded that it is Zolf who asks. They’ve always had such a good relationship.

“The Mother would really rather like the Watcher to remember its _place_ ,” he replies, layering on his charm. “Nothing more, nothing less.” It’s a lie. But almost everything Hamid has ever said has been a lie. This one at least, is a pretty one, good enough to convince the others to work with him.

“So, now what?” Grizzop asks, practically vibrating with frustration at all this talking and no _doing._

“We need to find The Archivist,” Wilde says, like there is a bad taste in his mouth. “He stopped the Unknowing and I bet he had a hand in whatever this is.” Hamid knows about the Archivist. He was marked by the Mother of Puppets very early on. 

“Could you track him, Grizzop?” Azu asks. The Hunter nods, his eyes gleaming at the prospect of a hunt.

“Oh, _definitely._ ”

“I will know him,” Wilde and Hamid say at the same time.

“What?” Hamid says in response to all of the blank stares at him. “The Archivist was marked by the Mother long before he was marked by the Watcher.” 

“If we’re going to do this, do we have to do it _together_?” Zolf asks, spitting the last word out like one might say _murder_.

“It would be most sensible in these times,” Azu mutters, resigned.

“Well, I’ll stay nearby?” Cel offers. 

“Fine, fine. I’ll be in The Forsaken, but I’ll stay close,” Zolf relents. Grizzop is on his feet already, bouncing up and down in desperation to get going. Wilde starts stealing bottles of wine. Sasha slips from shadow to shadow, moving over to the door with Grizzop. Cel takes another swig from their green vial and shudders. 

“Let’s go!” they say excitedly. Hamid snags a bottle of fine whiskey and stands, grinning. Zolf has already faded but he can feel where he has slipped into the Forsaken, like water droplets on a spider’s web. 

And so, the motley crew head out of this abandoned bar together, to go find the Archivist and ask what the hell the Ceaseless Watcher thinks it is up to.

Hamid is the last to leave and he glances back inside as darkness and fog begin to swallow up the building. He can see a yawning void where Azu had stood, the scrapes in the table where Grizzop had gone at it. There is a bright splash of green on the floor from Cel’s concoction, an Uncanniness to the table where Wilde was sat.

And, a small nest of false widow spiders crawling over the table.

Hamid grins, all eight of his eyes crinkling up. 

He turns and follows the rest of them into the world beyond.

**Author's Note:**

> Come bother me at historiagloria on tumblr and twitter!  
> Also, just so I'm absolutely clear:
> 
> Hamid: The Web  
> Zolf: The Lonely  
> Sasha: The Dark  
> Wilde: The Stranger  
> Cel: The Spiral  
> Grizzop: The Hunt  
> Azu: The Vast


End file.
